


Touch

by veronamay



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Early Work, M/M, Missing Scene, Religious Themes & References, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-27
Updated: 2003-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor's been watching Murphy for too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [lydia_petze](http://lydia-petze.livejournal.com) for beta services and unstinting flattery. I swear, I'd be lost without her.

Connor's always felt a bit removed from life – like he's watching rather than doing. Watching Murphy, usually. It started out as reflex when they were kids, because given half a chance Murph was always neck-deep in some trouble or other, and it was always Connor who got him out of it – or got them both deeper into it. Whatever the cause, watching Murphy has become a way of life, something Connor finds it impossible to stop.

Murph's a toucher. Be it affectionate hugs or knuckle sandwiches, it's how he likes to communicate. Connor isn't so tactile; he's conscious of his body and the space he lives in, and he can't be casual about it. Murphy's the only person who's ever been free to invade his space without permission, but Murphy’s not so limited; he shares himself with everyone he knows.

Connor knows what jealousy is. He doesn't name it, but every time Murphy gives away an embrace or a friendly nudge he has to restrain himself. _Mine_ , he wants to say. _My brother, my soul. Keep your fucking hands off._ But he can't say that, only think it, and so far the thought has never developed into words.

The thought is always in his mind of late, but Connor believes maybe that's his cross to bear. Every day he sees Murphy touching other people, laughing with them, an arm around their shoulders or a pat on the back, and he gets lost in the watching. It's the hands more than anything; Murphy has eloquent hands that speak more languages than the brothers can give voice to, and they make more conquests than he imagines. Connor's seen complete strangers stop in the street to watch Murphy light a cigarette. Those hands speak to Connor too, in ways that Murphy isn't aware of, saying things Connor shouldn't want to hear.

Murph touches Rocco a lot. Roc's a cuddly guy – Italian, but he doesn't carry that macho bullshit around so he's not afraid to hug a friend on the street. Murphy responds to that; he's always slapping Rocco's belly or cheek and delighting in the tussles that follow. Connor likes to watch this too, because it reminds him of when they were younger. He used to like tussling with Murphy then. But as they got older Connor learned that it's not ordinary to want to touch someone all the time. Mostly it's nothing more than the need to put a hand to Murphy's neck or brush against him as they walk on the street; still, he knows this is abnormal, and he's tried to bury those urges as deep as he can.

He touches Murphy a lot, even so. Less than he wants to, more than he thinks is careful, but he simply can't stop himself. Murphy doesn't draw back from him, which is dangerous, but he can usually keep himself under control. Connor hasn't touched anyone but Murphy in a meaningful way for a long time. He doesn't want to; it would feel like a betrayal in his own mind. Like Murphy touching Rocco is a betrayal, the darker side of him whispers, but he doesn't listen to that.

He sees Murphy looking at him sometimes, and he wonders if his brother knows what's in his head. But Murphy has never said a word about it, and as the years pass it's grown easier to just ignore the whole thing. It doesn't really matter, as long as Murphy knows he's still welcome.

What Connor would like more than anything is for the two of them to never need to be apart for any reason, never more than arm's length away from one another. But that would stifle Murph, and so Connor keeps his mouth shut and his hands to himself and doesn't think about it too much.

He watches Murphy constantly, but from time to time he wonders what he’ll do when that isn’t enough anymore.

* * *

Sometimes he gets moody, and he goes off for a bit to talk himself out of it, keep a lid on the things he can hardly bear to look at. Usually Murphy leaves him alone, only one day he doesn't, and follows him outside instead.

He feels sort of fragile. He's not sure he won't break if Murphy touches him. He's not sure he doesn't want to break, if it'll put Murphy's hands on him.

"What's the matter with you today?" Murph says, joining him on the fire escape. "You've got a face like a slapped arse."

"Charming," Connor replies automatically. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"Not lately." Murphy drops down beside him and leans back against the window ledge. His arm touches Connor all the way from shoulder to elbow, and his skin is warm. No wonder; it's only March but it's hot today, the sun shining down with a proper bite to it. They're shirtless because it's laundry day, but it's hot enough to go without anyway. Connor spares a guilty second to be glad; he can feel Murphy's skin for the first time in months.

Murphy digs an elbow into his ribs, and Connor blinks. He's been staring at Murphy's arm, tracing the patterns of the tattoos across his skin.

"You're not all there today, are you?" Murphy says with a grin. 'What's on your mind, Con? Found a new girl to moon over, have you?"

Connor laughs, but he's not amused. He wishes it were that simple. Murphy has no idea what he's thinking, and he's glad of that, but a small part of him wants to confess – right here and now, just spill it all out and to hell with morality and the fucking laws of God. He looks at Murphy's hands, holding a cigarette and a can of beer, and he wants them _all over him_.

"Connor?" Murphy says, and his smile is fading. "Hey – what is it? What the hell's wrong?"

Connor blinks again and realises he's crying. Jesus. He wipes a hand over his face and squeezes his eyes closed, cursing his weakness. He feels Murphy shift closer, laying one arm over his back, and his skin burns.

"I'm all right." He is appalled to hear his voice break, but pushes on. "Just homesick. St Paddy's Day next week, you know?"

"Are you sure?" Murphy stays close, watching him with sharp eyes. "It's nothing else you're not telling me?"

Connor manages a smile, fighting hard not to lean into Murphy's strength and just _drown_ in his touch. He can't do that. He _musn't_.

"Aye, that's all. It's enough, don't you think?" He makes dismissive sound. "I miss Ma and the family. It's naught more than that, Murph."

"You've still got me," Murphy says. Connor's grin comes a bit easier this time. He's not stupid, though – he keeps his eyes closed. Not one to tempt fate, is Connor McManus.

"Oh aye, that's true. And I can sell you for a good price too, if times get tough."

Murphy's laugh is almost as welcome as his touch. It reaches into all the places his hands can't, and makes Connor glad he's kept his thoughts to himself. He doesn't want to do anything to lose this.

"You can't sell me," Murphy tells him smugly, and he's so obviously asking for it that Connor can't resist.

"And why not, pray tell?"

"I'm too precious, brother," Murphy says. "You'd be lost without me, and I'd fall to fucking pieces if you weren't here. Face it, we're stuck with each other for life."

Connor is perfectly still, marveling at the ease with which Murphy can do that. He doesn't dare to do the same, because there are things waiting to tumble out of his heart and throat that would ruin everything. But he has to say something, anything, to let Murphy know he cares.

"Pray God I die an early death," is what comes out of his mouth. It's meant to be a joke, but Murphy doesn't appreciate it. He draws away and punches Connor hard on the arm. Connor opens his eyes in surprise.

"Don't make fun of it," Murph says in a low voice. "It's nothing to joke about." He leans back, away from Connor, and his mouth forms a hard downturned line across his face.

He's beyond surprise. Murphy doesn't do this; this is his own domain, worrying about being alone, wondering what he'd do if Murphy left him. It's a shock to realise that maybe he doesn't have the monopoly on that fear.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't give me sorry," Murphy spits back. "You've been doing this for weeks, and I'm fuckin' sick of it. What's going on in that head of yours?" He taps Connor hard on the forehead, then turns the blow into a caress, stroking down the side of Connor's face and around his nape. Connor has to fight not to push into the touch, like a cat being petted. He wants to purr his pleasure even while he feels wretched. He had no idea that Murphy's been feeling like this.

"It's – nothing. Really. I'm just thinking about things." He has a vague hope this will wash, but a glance at Murphy's face kills it.

"Bullshit." Murphy turns to face him, and his hand slips down to rest over Connor's heart. "I've been watching you lately, brother. You're all fucked up inside, and it hurts that you won't tell me why. I don't want to watch it anymore."

Forget surprise; Connor is _stunned_. He barely feels Murphy's hand, so shocked is he by the words coming out of his brother's mouth, but his skin is prickling nonetheless. Murphy's face is clearly marked by the worry he's been hiding, his eyes dark with it. This is something Connor did not see coming.

"I can't tell you," he says at last, and drops his eyes. He can't look at his brother. He doesn't often feel shame, but it's flooding over him now. He hasn't even been to confession for fear of what the priest would say. He knows he couldn't stand what Murphy would say.

"More bullshit." Murphy slides his hand up to Connor's shoulder – _so much contact_ \- and grips him there, giving him a shake for good measure. "Who can you tell, if it's not me? Nothin's so bad as all that, Con."

Connor just shakes his head. He can feel the words piling up, wanting to be said, but he doesn't dare. Murphy would leave him – or worse, he'd pity him. Connor honestly thinks he'd rather die.

Murphy's sigh is loud and heavy. He doesn't press any further though, for which Connor is thankful. He doesn't move away either, but shifts back up with his arm over Connor's shoulder. They stay like that for a long while, until the phone rings and it's Rocco telling them to get their arses down to Doc's.

* * *

March eighteenth is always cause for an aching head if you're Irish. Connor sometimes wishes he could think about the consequences the night before, but that'd take away half the fun of getting pissed. Fun is the last thing on his mind, though, when the bright cold sunlight pours through the dirty windows in the loft, and the pounding in his head is matched only by the throbbing in his knuckles. They'd broken their promise to Ma, of course. She'd known they would even as they made it.

Murphy looks like Connor feels; wretched and rumpled. For some reason they slept with their boots on and Connor can't figure out why, but then he's distracted by Murphy's heavy-eyed, barely-awake stare and the dark shadow of stubble on his face. Then there's no time to think at all, because the door's thrown open and two burly Russians are yelling and waving guns in their faces and Connor is doing as he’s told, cuffing himself to the toilet, trying to see Murphy over his shoulder. Murphy's yelling right back at them, damn him, but Connor has no voice at all for a few seconds as the terror of losing his brother hits him square in the gut. Then he's screaming for all he's worth, and Murphy _looks_ at him and all Connor can think is _he will not let this happen_.

The next few seconds are a blur. He feels a muscle in his leg tear, and the warmth of the blood running over his wrists, but none of it matters. There's only Murphy on the street below and the big Russian, fucking Ivan the Terrible, standing right where Connor wants him to be for forty pounds of porcelain to be dropped on his fucking head. He doesn't wait to watch it fall; he doesn't even think about jumping. He just does it, and has time to think, _Thank Christ and all the angels,_ before he blacks out.

* * *

The first thing he feels is Murphy's hand in his hair, so naturally he thinks he's dreaming. It's a shock to wake up and still feel the sensation, but he's not going to argue about it. Murphy has that worried look on his face again, but it disappears when Connor sits up and looks around. They're in the emergency ward – no beds, just the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room. He's surprised he could stay unconscious in one of those.

"About time you woke up," Murphy says. "Thought you'd done some damage with that fucking leap of faith, you stupid fuck." He cocks an eyebrow and smiles. "Should've known better, with that hard head of yours."

"You're welcome," Connor mutters, straightening his legs. The left one protests sharply and he bites off a groan. Murphy sees it, though; he drops to his knees and starts a steady massage along Connor's thigh that feels incredibly good and frightens the hell out of him at the same time.

"What were you thinking?" Murphy demands. His hands are not gentle, but they're helping with the ache. Connor pulls his bathrobe more tightly round him. "You could've killed yourself, you dumb bastard. Think you're fucking Rambo, do you?"

"What was I supposed to do? Let them kill you?" Connor stares at Murphy, remembering the look they'd shared, wondering if he'd imagined it. "Fuck _that_. I wasn't going to just let it happen, Murph." He doesn't say all of it, doesn’t tell Murphy that he'd rather die himself, that he'd thought they were both dead and was glad of it, because they were together at the end. But he thinks Murphy can see that anyway somehow; Murphy's eyes are wet and his gaze is steady on Connor's face.

Murphy reaches up and touches his bandaged wrists. "Thank you," he says, but his face says a hell of a lot more than that. Connor doesn't say anything, but he turns his hands around and grabs Murphy's own, gripping them tightly. He can live with this, he thinks. As long as Murphy's with him like this, he can live with anything.

* * *

The jail cell is more comfortable than the loft; cleaner, quieter, and it smells better. Connor's so tired he doesn't remember lying down, but there he is suddenly, flat on his back gasping for air with cold water on his face and a fire in his mind that burns him clean. A dark voice is ringing in his ears, giving him purpose, telling him _My will be done_. Across the cell he can see Murphy breathing deep of the sweet smell in the room, like flowers and incense. The rosary lies heavy on his chest, weighted down with new meaning.

Connor looks at Murphy and suddenly, simply, he _knows_. This is the price he will pay, if he wishes. These are the terms of the bargain. One vice for many; one life spared, if he will take on the task.

 _I will,_ he says silently. And aloud, "Destroy all that which is evil ..."

"... so that which is good may flourish."

Murphy stares back at him. Their words echo in the stone-walled cell as the water slows, then stops dripping. Their baptism is over; the Presence is gone. Connor's afraid to move in case he breaks the spell that hangs over them. He has made his bargain, but he doesn't know what Murphy's is, and he's too scared to ask.

A minute later the decision is made for him; Murphy cannons into him and knocks him flat onto the bed again, his face buried in Connor's neck.

"You stupid _fuck_." Murphy's voice is muffled, but his arms are strong around Connor's waist. Connor opens his mouth to reply, but he doesn't get the chance because Murphy's kissing him. Murphy's kissing him, and Connor isn't dreaming it, which is more than his mind can handle. He holds Murphy tight to him, _doing_ rather than _watching_ , finally, and every second thought is, _Thank you_.


End file.
